


and so let kingdom come

by shilu_ette



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Keigo is a brat, M/M, Ryoma is a tolerable senpai, poor Tezuka
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-18
Updated: 2015-11-18
Packaged: 2018-05-02 05:43:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5236469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shilu_ette/pseuds/shilu_ette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Atobe is in his first year and he is an aggressive brat who provokes his vice captain a little too much. But he doesn't know how cruel Echizen can be when he chooses to, and how indifferent he is to his enemies. Age-reversed Atobe and Ryoma.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and so let kingdom come

**Author's Note:**

> I fear I made Atobe into a petulant brat. Also, please keep in mind that school in Japan starts in March and the nationals would take someplace in June—August.  
> Also, I played with my favorite trope of Ryoma angsting over his legacy and being a raging bastard/monster. Bite me.  
> Also a dash of onesided Tezuka/Ryoma. Eventual Atoryo, but before that some angst and some snark.

Atobe Keigo was a good tennis player, Ryoma often acknowledged, but that didn’t excuse his cockshit behavior. If Tezuka didn’t care about his teammates and their health so much, Ryoma would have been sure to make the boy howl and quit the tennis team.

But he desists. He slides into the court benches and lets his mind wander as he waits for the regulars to get into court.

“I think he’s like you, to be honest,” Tezuka once ventured out in the locker rooms, in the early spring days, in his cautious and solemn way. “When you were his age.”

Ryoma had grunted, his activities too focused on doffing off his shirt. “I think you have poor memory skills,” he told his captain, “And you were a self-pompous git in our first year.”

Tezuka had suppressed a smile, but Ryoma saw it and it had made him scowl.

“I,” he said, and he put much disdain in the pronoun as he could have mustered, “I never swaggered off to the courts. He treats the game like it’s a performance.”

Tezuka inclined his head and dropped the subject.

Now, in the later summer, Nationals was upon them, and Atobe stops where he is sitting. Ryoma can tell from his clipped steps upon him that it was the younger boy. He had a gait to his steps.  _What a horse_ , Ryoma thinks.  _Another point I should make with Tezuka—_ I _never have a way with walking._

“The nationals are next week, and I still have never seen you play,” Atobe remarks loftily to Ryoma, twirling his racket on one hand as he advances, “Is your racket for show?”

“Brilliant observational skills, Atobe,” Ryoma deadpans. He is not in the mood to talk to the kid, not when he is terrible with all his koukais and he barely functions his role as a vice-captain. He manages to paste on a bored expression for the occasion. “But I’m sure Tezuka made me his vice-captain for a reason.”

Atobe sneers. He always sneers or scowls when he is around Ryoma, he finds it all very amusing and irritating at once. “I don’t see how you ever became second-in-command, is all. Our captain—I can understand. He’s good.” He says this very reluctantly, as if admitting Tezuka Kunimitsu was a good tennis player would somehow pain him to do so. Ryoma bites back a smirk. “But you. I don’t see that merit.”

Oh, Ryoma could say a lot of things. He could sneer and thwack the boy, or offer him a match and crush his little ice world technique he perfected. Or he could assign him laps until the boy was too weak to face up Kirihara next week. He would, but Tezuka would be appalled.

He shrugs, opting to ignore the younger boy and continues to watch the other regulars trickle into the court grounds. He watches Tezuka, his lean form and hard grip, his brilliant eyes.

“You’re not answering me,” Atobe huffs, persistent cocky brat he is, leaning against the fence and still glaring at Ryoma, “I really don’t see how you ever became second-in-command.”

“It’s not a war zone, you know,” Ryoma says before he can stop himself, “It’s a title.”

From the corner of his eyes, he sees Keigo smirk, a very deliberate curl of his lips. “Everything’s a warzone, Echizen,” he says snidely, and Ryoma notes how he uses his surname instead of the more respectable  _senpai._  Not that he cares about that either, but those little perks are adding up. “Maybe you’ll think it more in terms of strategy when I beat you.”

Ryoma shoots an annoyed glance at Keigo who stares back unperturbed. “Are you asking for a match?” he asks bluntly.

Keigo tsks. “You make it sound so plebian,” he comments, disdain smearing all over his words.

“You make it sound like a poorly written script from Hamlet,” Ryoma says back, his voice as flat as it would get, “What is it you British use for this situation? Oh yes—bugger off.” He says it in English, in his American accent, all full of his sarcasm and amusement. Atobe narrows his eyes.

 “Our captain’s good,” he repeats, “So I’ll say I need a few weeks more to beat him after the nationals. But you—“and he turns his attention to Ryoma, with his dismissal and disdain all rolled into one, “You—I can beat.”

“Scary,” Ryoma deadpans.

Atobe laughs a little, and Ryoma’s startled how it sounds terse. He doesn’t like to be mocked, that Atobe brat. “Careful, senpai,” he says, finally rolling off the offending respect off his tongue, “You don’t know how good I am.”

“You don’t know how bad you are,” Ryoma replies, standing up at last—Tezuka has seen him. He is irritated to note that he and Atobe are eye level with each other. He should do more push-ups. “Pity I’ll ruin it for you.”

Atobe sneers. His blue eyes are cold and flat, and Ryoma almost smiles at that.

/

/

/

“Are you provoking our third?” Tezuka asks him later, when Tezuka makes him stay behind after all the regulars are gone. “It’s not good to provoke him, you know.”

“I know,” Ryoma snipes, and he is not looking at Tezuka as he is hoisting up his tennis bag, “And for the record. He came up to me. Why would I provoke him?”

“He needs all the rage he can get from Rikkai,” Tezuka says quietly. Ryoma snaps.

“I  _know_. Worry about your arm instead.”

There is a terse silence after that, and Ryoma almost regrets it, but he is also feeling belligerent and it is not the first time he attacked Tezuka in this way. So he fumes silently until Tezuka speaks again, which predictably enough, Tezuka does. He speaks with a new tiredness.

“I worry,” he says quietly, “I might not be able to play Sanada with my best.”

That makes Ryoma turn, and squint his eyes. The locker rooms are not lighted and it makes Tezuka’s shadow dark and foreboding.

“You said it was healed.” He says this in a sharper tone than he would have liked, but. “Completely. You even left school in our second year for that.”

Tezuka pauses. “I know. I think…perhaps I’m wrong.”

“You’re never wrong.”

That gets a small smile out of Tezuka, which worries him. Tezuka was never humorous except in typical self-deprecating situations. “It’s just the nerves. Rikkai is strong.”

Ryoma scowls before he can help it, and turns away. “Put yourself in singles three, then,” he says, before he can stop himself and regret it. “Make Atobe singles two. Play Kirihara, you can beat him.”

There is a pause. “Atobe won’t be able to beat Sanada.”

“Well of course not,” Ryoma mutters viciously, “And you’re a manipulative asshole. I’ll play Yukimura, and we can all go home happy.”

There is another silence after that before Tezuka ventures out wryly, “I don’t know if you can beat Yukimura with words.”

That makes Ryoma tense; all lean and angled, as he glares down at his tennis bag. It has his three rackets, dirtless and spotless. He suddenly wonders if Tezuka overheard his conversation with Atobe. “I didn’t know,” he says carefully, his words deceptively light and sharpless, “That you doubted my tennis. Do you think I’ll lose?”

Ryoma likes Tezuka’s immediacy, not even a hesitation in his answer. “No,” Tezuka says, and Ryoma is glad to hear the firmness creep back. “No. That’s not it. But Yukimura is…his tennis is not normal.”

“No, they come from devil rituals,” Ryoma agrees dryly, and turns to look at Tezuka. Tezuka is twitching his lips. “I’ll live. I know how to deal with him.”

Tezuka locks his eyes onto his. He nods minutely.

“We must win this year,” he says softly. Ryoma smirks.

“ _I’m_  in singles one,” he says breezily, “How the hell will we lose?”

/

/

/

“Why are you in singles one?” Atobe demands at him, the moment Ryoma enters the courts. Atobe is up in his racket, and his eyes are narrowed. He looks furious.

Ryoma blinks at him lazily, and shurgs when Atobe wouldn’t let some things go, as usual. “You’re in singles two now,” he points out, “I vouched for you. Aren’t you grateful?”

He is about to turn and go over to his bench and take a nap. He needs to think and Atobe is not helping.

But whatever Atobe is, whatever he may become, he surely is a stupid and reckless first year. Ryoma keeps forgetting that, this Atobe Keigo who burst into the tennis courts on the first day of his school and challenged all the regulars and beat them all. He would have challenged Ryoma too, those blue eyes locking with Ryoma’s, his racket pointed at him. He would have played him then, had it not been for Tezuka’s intervention. Atobe would have demolished the team.

But today, he is struck by that springtime deva-ju, the boy with his foreign ways and brash tennis that was hungry for power.

Atobe points a racket at him and his eyes are blazing and cold. “I don’t need anyone  _vouching_  for me,” he spits, and his eyes are all ice and fire, “Especially from a former tennis superstar’s son. Why do you even  _play_  tennis, if you’re not going to take it seriously? I thought the Samurai would have taught you better.”

He strikes a point. Ryoma feels the words before he actually processes them, and he is aware at his hands, his eyes and his mouth. He knows he is angry before he even thinks,  _that kid. I will crush him._  It is suddenly barbaric.

“You don’t know anything about my father,” he says, and he is aware that his voice had suddenly gone soft.

Atobe grins, a sharp grin, because he think she has it now, a weakness. It is not, but Atobe is stupid and proud enough to exploit it. “I know enough,” he sneers, and his next words are words Ryoma had heard, so many times in many different settings and situations. He can imagine them before Atobe says them. “You aren’t good enough to ever become him. You never play.”

Ryoma stares at this younger boy, his mind blank and curiously white. He should not rile you up. The match is next week. Do not do anything stupid. All those rational thoughts are made in Tezuka’s disapproving voice, and Ryoma banishes them all with a snarl. Fuck you, he thinks, I deserve this and he deserves this. I will crush him and Yukimura too.

“What do you want?” And he voice is flat and dead. Atobe stares at him, suddenly aware that he touched something he should not have, but he is so self-possessed and so full of himself that he does not know what. He shifts his foot and lifts his chin.

“I want a match,” he says, his regal tone in place. “ _I’ll_ be the one to decide if you’re worthy of singles one.”

Ryoma smiles.  _You will dig your grave and I will bury you alive._

/

/

/

Ryoma unleashes the Pinnacle of Destruction after the first serve. Atobe does not know what hit him.

Atobe gapes, and across the court, Ryoma can see him visibly freeze, before he turns around and give Ryoma a look. It is a contemplating look before his smirk comes back up. “Well,” he says, “You are quite good. I’m impressed.”

Ryoma does not answer to that. It’s a stupid and worthless remark. Atobe uses his Insight and Ryoma fakes his moves. He scores another ball.

When it is Atobe’s turn to serve, he uses a narrow volley that Ryoma returns easily with his side step. He hits a curve ball that defies gravity and hits a power ball that Atobe cannot return. He predicts the counts of rallies inside his head, he unleashes power in his right arm and Atobe’s racket almost flies out. Atobe’s eyes are wide and almost comically. The boy grits his teeth.

Atobe had not yet won a single point. Atobe is blatantly panting now, his eyes narrowed. His face looks frustrated, but at least it lost its sneer.

Soon, Ryoma thinks, he will lose any facial expressions too.

He hits the ball.

That is when Atobe falls in his side of the net, his eyes suddenly hazy and wide. He opens his mouth but no sound comes out. For an exalting moment, the boy is openly terrified and vulnerable. He cannot return the ball, and his racket clatters to the ground.

“ECHIZEN!”

He turns. Tezuka is there, his eyes furious, as the regulars hover behind him. Tezuka’s gaze goes to Atobe and Ryoma, flitting back and forth in rapid succession, and Ryoma thinks Tezuka is about to rush over to Atobe. Atobe is on the ground, his mouth still gasping. His eyes do not blink.

But it is Oishi who goes up to him, and Tezuka comes up to him, his mouth set tight and his hands balled into fists. Ryoma meets his eyes all the way up to the point Tezuka marches up to him.

“I thought,” Tezuka says, and Ryoma notes the naked anger, the sheer emotion Tezuka puts into his words, “I thought we discussed this. No matches.”

Ryoma wonders what to say.  _He started it_ sounds childish.  _He provoked me_  even more so. He wonders how to convey to Tezuka that sometimes tennis was not about just matches and balls and points. It was more than that, sometimes he felt tat he would excel in politics, with all the whispers and titters behind him. He wants to tell his captain that tennis wasn’t all about the game.

He is about to say that, but he looks at Tezuka’s arm. Well. It wasn’t as if Tezuka was that stupid. Tezuka would know about hidden alleyways and rackets used beyond courts.

He raises and eyebrow. “I have battles that I have to fight for,” he says instead, “Just like you have yours.”

Tezuka looks at him, stares at him until Ryoma feels the anger seep out of him, until Tezuka registers the words and meanings and Ryoma is left with an unhappy and tired Tezuka. “It doesn’t mean you had to use the  _yips_ on him,” he says wearily. “This isn’t a battlefield.”

Ryoma quirks his lips. He cannot think everything is so ironic. “That’s what I’ve been telling him.”

/

/

/

 

He remembers his first matches in America, the swaying of palm trees and the sweat in his hands as he played under the blistering sun. He was a prodigy at nine, winning his Junior Championships the year he first played them, his twist serve unprecedented and his moves sleek and practiced.

He did not go by the name Echizen. He played as Ryoma.

But the tennis circuit was like any societal circle, with their rumors and gossip, and soon people were bursting to know who the tiny runt was, with his wide hazel eyes and smirk, and people demanded answers. Why this Japanese kid? Will this unknown nobody who is a foreigner someday be representing America? The media fretted and denied the fretting. Even at that young age, Ryoma found it all so amusing and secretive.

Until, everything came out, until people knew his name, his surname Echizen and soon the photos came and the critics blazed their pens. They all suddenly smiled, and laughed, relieved, of course, of course. He is the son of Echizen Nanjiroh. We can deal with that. We can accept that. You came from the family of tennis.

His serves, then, were no longer his own. His courts and trophies were suddenly no different from the days he spent with his father, tolling away in the backyard of his house, knowing he will never surpass those bigger hands.

He became bored.

/

/

/

Atobe appears the next day at practice and he is withdrawn and pale, but his eyes still meet Ryoma’s defiantly when they line up for Tezuka’s pep talk before practice. Oishi hesitates around the boy, but Atobe fends him off with an irritated tight smile and his insistence that he is fine. Well. Ryoma had to acknowledge his pride at least. Tezuka, even while delivering his speech, is giving him little looks that Ryoma knows to mean he should apologize as soon as he gets the chance. Ryoma ignores it. Tezuka is very easy to ignore if you were his friend, Ryoma doesn’t know why he even bothers.

Surprisingly, it is Atobe who comes up to him, his pale face and determined lips, his feet scuffling up front to Ryoma. Tezuka leaves the spot with a approving nod and shoots a final look at Ryoma. They are alone.

Atobe doesn’t speak up at first, choosing to glare beyond Ryoma and concentrating his eyes on the fence that surrounds them. Ryoma waits patiently, because he likes discomfort than apologies, and so finally Atobe ventures out.

“Why do you never play? In the ranking matches, or even in the regionals.”

It was a trite and predictable question, Ryoma thought, raising an eyebrow. But he shrugs anyway, putting on his bored tone that would make them pretend yesterday did not happen. “I’m good enough.”

But Atobe is not about to let yesterday’s matches go. His gaze reverts back to Ryoma and his lips twist. “I know you’re  _good_ ,” he says, not quite so disdainfully now, “But that’s not an answer.”

Ryoma widens his eyes. “I wasn’t aware that I needed to give an answer,” he says, mock-surprised. But all Atobe does is scowl at him, so Ryoma shrugs again. The sun is hot today. It reminds him of America too much and it’s irritating. He wants his nap. “They’re boring. I don’t do things that bore me.”

“And captain’s okay with that?”

“You don’t see Tezuka assigning laps to me, do you? I may have his implicit approval.” Ryoma wants this conversation over, but all Atobe does is narrow his eyes even more. He is such an irritating little brat who wants to poke his snotty nose at everything. Ryoma wishes that he went full out yesterday. He feels vigilant.

“Are you better than Tezuka?” Atobe finally asks. That question makes Ryoma pause.

“Tezuka is the captain of the team,” Ryoma settles, after a moment’s hesitation, but Atobe cuts him off.

“That’s not the question, Echizen. Senpai,” Atobe adds in grudgingly after a beat with a small sneer, “I’ve played with you both. He went out on me and I still managed a point with him. You played with me yesterday.”

Ryoma inwardly starts. He didn’t think the Atobe kid would have known that.

“I played you, yes,” he says carefully, his face carefully blank.

“You didn’t go all out on me. You were  _toying_  with me.” And Atobe is seething, his blue eyes as cold as yesterday’s blowout, and his lips barely move. “So. I’m asking you. You must be better than Tezuka, so why aren’t you captain? You’re the person I need to crush.”

Oh. So the boy was still a fighter. Tezuka was wrong, when he expected Ryoma to apologize. He thought he would have to confront a sniveling brat. His lips lose its sharp edge and he almost smirks. Atobe sees the twitch on his lips, Ryoma can tell, from the deepening scowl. It makes his next words easier to say.

“I’m sorry,” he says airily, “For traumatizing you yesterday.”

Atobe looks suspicious. “Captain made you say that.”

Ryoma smirks this time. He is beginning to approve of Atobe’s mind, how sharp it can be sometimes.

Atobe’s scowl lessens and this time he is the one to look away and shrug. For a moment Ryoma would have said that Atobe looked awkward of all things, but soon Atobe schools his face impassively and nods. “I’m sorry too, I suppose,” he says, stiff, if not careful. “I know you reacted to some of the things I said yesterday badly. I didn’t know it was a sore spot.”

Ryoma shrugs. “Tezuka again?” he says, to dismiss the apology and the sudden awkwardness, but Atobe glares at him.

“No,” he grits his teeth, “I don’t normally goad people. People  _come_  to me. You don’t understand. I—“ he stops and bites his lips before going on. “I knew you were Echizen Nanjiroh’s son. I thought you became vice-captain because of that. It…I like to play fair.” Atobe looks away again, then back at him. “I looked you up last night. Your games. You play really well.”

Ryoma stares at him. His throat suddenly burns. Atobe continues with a strained voice. It is paining him to say this, Ryoma thinks, but it pains him equally to listen. He wishes his mouth would work.

“You have a good twist serve. But you…you didn’t play them like you played me. You still won them all though.” Atobe talks incessantly, Ryoma wants the boy to shut up. “Your playing style. It changed.”

Ryoma finds his voice. When he talks, it sounds odd to his ears. “I didn’t know you liked to flatter someone’s ego,” he says dully. He is about to turn away, “Don’t be too awed.”

“Wait!”

Atobe grabs his wrist. Ryoma almost starts, and then tightens his lips. He turns to look at Atobe, his eyes narrowed. Atobe is unfazed though, meeting the glare with a glare of his own.

“I play Sanada next week,” he says, “I saw Rikkai’s matches in the regionals. I—“ he falters before carrying on. “Let’s say I might lose. Obviously I’ll be brilliant—“

“Obviously,” Ryoma interjects dryly.

“—But he’s strong. He’s a power player  _and_ a stamina player. He’s in the nationals league.” Atobe lets out a breath. “Captain is expecting me to lose, right? And for you to win Yukimura. We can beat them with one double and two single wins.”

Ryoma blinks slowly, and nods. He would have said something about Tezuka’s arm, just to give the boy something, a bone to chew on, but Atobe takes his silence for granted and continues his little tirade.

“I don’t want to lose to Sanada. I’m not going to be just a pawn. You have to help me.” And here is when Atobe’s grip squeezes, his eyes boring into Ryoma’s own, his lips twisting. “I want to win,” he says with a sharp intake of breath.

It is practice, the sun is blazing, and around them regulars toss balls and smack them across the fence. Ryoma does not register any of this, however, as he studies the younger boy, his bright, glittering eyes, and determination. He is almost intrigued. Almost intrigued as the day when he met Tezuka for the first time, but Atobe is not to know about that.

“You barely acknowledged me yesterday and now I’m your mentor for Rikkai,” Ryoma says, “One would think you would have some principles, Atobe-kun.”

He puts that  _–kun_  mockingly, as Atobe gave him his entitled  _senpai_  title mockingly. Atobe catches onto this and he huffs.

“That was before you traumatized me,” he says, not so nicely. “If anything else, you owe me.”

This gets Ryoma amused. “Do I?”

“Yes.” Atobe’s eyes gleam. Ryoma is aware that he has seen that gleam before, when he was nine, ten, eleven. He has seen them often, the mirror in his room reflecting his hazel orbs, his lips whispering,  _I will beat him, I will beat my old man and become a legend._

Atobe doesn’t have such a father. Mayhap he will achieve such childish ambitions.

Ryoma tilts his head and smiles. It would be sharp and full of teeth. Lesser teammates have shyed away from it, Oishi had once laughed warily, Kikumaru had shuddered before it. Atobe looks at him, and matches his lips, teeth for teeth, malice with malice.

“I won’t train you like Tezuka,” he says, “I’ll only play you.”

Atobe rolls his eyes. “Why do you think I asked you?” he snipes. He lets go of his wrist. His wrist tingles from the loss.

/

/

/

Ryoma had played Tezuka the first time under a railway. He had won and Tezuka had gripped his arm violently, glasses askew, at the last ball.

“You’re not even at your best,” Ryoma pointed out coolly. He was still a newcomer then, his Japanese rough and jittery, his lips constantly a sneer.  He had no qualms then in pointing out the obvious. “What happened to your arm?”

Tezuka looked at him evenly, his breathing uneven. He had only got a point across and that was only because Ryoma was feeling benevolent. “Arai-senpai hit me with his racket,” he said, with his serious tone and grave face, “He thought I was too young to be a regular.”

Ryoma stared. Tezuka continued through his silence. “It’s not that bad. I’m hoping it’ll heal soon.”

“You’re a fucking idiot,” Ryoma told him. He was suddenly indigent. He had been playing an invalid. Tezuka thought he could still play him with a pained arm. The nerve. “You should tell the captain.”

Tezuka gave him a little, strained smile. “Like I said,” he said quietly, “It’s not important.” He gave him a look of his own this time and studied Ryoma. “Why aren’t you in the regulars?” he ventured, “You play…quite marvelously.”

Ryoma shrugged. He was annoyed, a wasted match on a Saturday. “I don’t want to play with people who can’t win against me,” he dismissed, and raised an eyebrow at Tezuka’s arm. “And look at your arm. I don’t want that, thanks.”

Tezuka had flinched, and that flinch, and the beaten down expression on his face had haunted Ryoma throughout his first year.

In retrospect, he should have nagged Tezuka to go to the hospital. But they weren’t friends then, and Ryoma did not think they would ever be.

Tezuka stood up, his beaten down face hidden under his sweaty hair and looked at Ryoma. At that moment, Ryoma narrowed his eyes. Tezuka was too calm for someone who had been beaten and plummeted, and Ryoma knew for a fact that Tezuka was not a gallant loser.

“Are you planning to spend the next three years in the tennis club?” Tezuka asked, and his voice was so serious, so solemn, for someone who was twelve and young. Ryoma titled his head.

“There isn’t any place to go to besides the tennis club,” he said casually, swinging his racket. “Not like I could take up other club activities. Why? Afraid I’ll fight you for captaincy? You can have it, I don’t want it.”

“I wasn’t presuming,” Tezuka replied politely, “But I would like you on my regulars. When…if I become captain.”

Ryoma gave him a sharp smile. Tezuka had returned it with a twitch.  _Interesting_ , Ryoma thought.

“You presume too much,” he drawled. Tezuka tilted his head.

“I think we can win the Nationals,” he said, and the words were like a new promise, full of hesitant greed and desire, “Together. I would like our team to go to Nationals.”

/

/

/

Atobe’s mansion is located in the outskirts of Tokyo, its lush greenery rich and in the summer heat. It takes Ryoma twenty minutes by the JR line, his tennis bag heaving against his back. Atobe’s chauffeur is out to greet him. Atobe is nowhere to be seen, and Ryoma sets up his rackets on Atobe’s private courts, his face already marred with fierce irritation. He is already regretting his offer. He could be playing Tezuka by now, have their usual Saturday match under the rail tracks, perhaps go for some sushi afterwards.  _Hell must have frozen over_ , Ryoma thinks, disgusted,  _for me to choose Tezuka over this squalid brat._

Atobe appears, clad in his tennis uniform and his face schooled into a blank. He offers Ryoma a terse bow that is more of a nod, and Ryoma hates the determination that is oozing out of the boy. Before he can stop himself, he remarks, “You do realize that a couple of days of hard practice isn’t going to make you as good as Sanada.”

Atobe narrows his eyes but doesn’t rise up to the bait. He only acknowledges the crudely put insult with a jerk of his head.

Ryoma snorts, choosing his red racket carelessly. He fingers the grip, feels the sun blazing down at him.  _Atobe is a runt_ , he thinks,  _Sanada is going to plummet him. But._

“Let’s work on your serves first,” Ryoma says, “See if we can take Sanada by surprise.”

Ryoma expects Atobe to snap his head up and retort something along the lines of how his serves are perfect and good, that he is suave at his hits and counters. He expects Atobe to balk and testily tell him not to order him around. Atobe surprises him again; he only gives another terse nod and takes his position at his side of the courts.

Ryoma raises an eyebrow.

Atobe’s serves are clear-cutting but they are not impactful at all; Ryoma can return them after the first try, and he doesn’t bother to send them over the net. While Atobe hits again and again, Ryoma feels the power behind the balls, the curves, thinks. He hits another serve carelessly against his racket frame, not even bothering to see if the ball had made it through the other side of the net.

Atobe doesn’t comment on it. He merely narrows his eyes, but dutifully stalks over to the ball basket and takes out another yellow ball. He takes his position and serves.

Again and again. Ryoma watches his form, his hit, his passing of the ball, until he finally makes a decision and sighs inwardly. He hates mentoring. Strategy is awful.  _He isn’t Tezuka_ ; not what he signed up for, fuck.

He finally hits the ball hard, and across from him Atobe finally runs to get the ball, and they have a semi-fierce rally, before Ryoma ends it with a zero-shiki.

“You’re too all rounded,” Ryoma says, as soon as Atobe trudges at the front of the net. Atobe glares at him, his face sleek with sweat.

“Is that your assessment?” he sneers. “Fancy that. I could have told you that at the beginning, saved myself a couple of hours of serving.”

Ryoma wants to roll his eyes. “I meant,” he says, bored, “You play it too safe. You play defensive. Think of you with a barrier stone wall, and Sanada will get you with his fire-breathing methods.”

Atobe narrows his eyes. “Stones don’t burn.”

“Metaphor,” Ryoma says shortly. “Fine then. You’re the wooden house and Sanada’s the fucking dragon. What I’m trying to say is—“ Ryoma looks down at his racket and makes a face, “You need to attack. Make your serve like a knife. Cut it like a fire.”

“Like your twist serve? Showplay?” Atobe raises an eyebrow. “You’re very terrible at metaphors and peptalks, senpai. No wonder Tezuka’s captain.”

“Tezuka-senpai,” Ryoma corrects him without thought, and Atobe tilts his head and regards him silently for a moment.

“I didn’t know you were stingy on honorifics,” he says lightly, almost offhandedly, and before Ryoma could reply to that, Atobe moves on. “Fine then, what’s your idea of slashing a dragon?”

 _I hate this kid_ , Ryoma thinks glumly. Almost amused.

/

/

/

This time, Ryoma stands with Atobe on the same side of the net. Sometime around, he switches to English and he has the insult of hearing Atobe’s perfectly clipped British accent replying to him, along with Atobe’s not-so-gentlemanly curse words.

“Someone’s got a filthy mouth,” Ryoma mutters, and Atobe shoots him a dirty look over his shoulder.

“Try to be polite when you have a teacher who uses bloody metaphors that don’t make any buggering sense,” Atobe snaps, and hits the balls again. “Slashing fire. Ha! What utter blasphemy. How does that even work?”

“Doesn’t,” Ryoma says, an involuntarily smirk curling up against his lips. “Kind of like your match and Sanada’s, really.”

Atobe sneers. “Careful, senpai, or I’ll think you’d really want me to win.”

Ryoma rolls his eyes. “Use the snap of your wrist more,” he says, in place of another insult. “Swing your racket further.”

Atobe hits another ball and it skids. He grunts, but Ryoma has an inspiration.

“No—that,” he says, and gestures to the abandoned ball. “That—that ball. Hit that ball again.”

Atobe looks at him, disgruntled. “That ball didn’t even pass the net—“

“I know,” Ryoma says, a tad impatient. “But if it does. Sanada won’t be able to easily return it. Sanada’s a power player, not… he’s not really a technician.”

Atobe snorts. “You mean he’s a great brute who swings his racket like a katana.”

Ryoma doesn’t even try to hide his smirk this time. “Yeah. Smart thinking, that.”

For the first time that day, Atobe returns his smirk. “I know how to read between the lines,” he says breezily.

It’s sundown when they end, having perfected the skidding serve and how, by adjusting the angle, Atobe could serve it across the net and make the ball skim over the court surface just barely before the court lines before it bounces lightly and rolls out of the court. Atobe is grinning, his hair plastered beyond repair, and Ryoma allows a small grin too, as he approaches Atobe’s panting form. “Hey. Good one.”

Atobe turns to him, his grey eyes blazing against the sunset, and his arms shaking. He does a good job to hide it, though, and his grin is devoid of mockery and disdain for a change. “It’s a good serve,” he says, “I mean. I wouldn’t have thought of it. It takes a lot of control though. Stamina.”

Ryoma shrugs. “You could bulk up,” he says casually. “Push-ups and laps. I could get a word in with Tezuka for those laps.”

Atobe rolls his eyes. “Funny,” he says, but it’s without the usual bite. “Will you be staying for dinner? I mean,” he says, almost hesitant, and Ryoma is struck by another amusement, “You did just waste an entire Saturday. Working on serves.”

“It’s fine,” Ryoma says and he is surprised to find he means it. “You should go rest, sleep on it.” He pauses and wonders what to say next. “Good job with that serve,” he adds, and looks down at his racket immediately. Damn, Tezuka could make it sound solemn, give those words much more weight.

Ryoma hears Atobe chuckle, and it makes him frown. “You’re really bad at giving compliments, senpai,” Atobe says, “But I guess I can take that.”

“Yeah, well, what an honor, that,” Ryoma mutters. He looks up and sees Atobe watching him. Their eyes meet and Ryoma very nearly looks away. He refrains from acting like a nervous doe. “I’ll be going then. S’late.”

“You could—“ And this time, Atobe is the one floundering the words. He is biting his lips. “We could—play a match.”

Ryoma snorts. His jitter is replaced with amusement again. “I’ll be kicking your ass in less then a minute at your state,” he says, “Unless you still think my skills are crap.”

“I don’t,” Atobe says, fast and sullen, “Don’t be an idiot, senpai. I meant. After the Nationals. I’d like another match.”

And this answer too, is swift and rapid, not without a moment’s hesitation. “No.”

Atobe narrows his eyes and his face is no longer full of contentment, but Ryoma does not respond his refusal with reasons. He does not need to give reasons to his younger boy, damn him. They end up glaring at each other. As usual, it is Atobe who breaks the silence first.

“If it’s anything I said the last time—“ Atobe starts hotly, but Ryoma cuts him off.

“No. No, it’s not that. It’s not anything. I just don’t.”

Atobe is still glaring at him, demanding a reason. Ryoma is not about to give him any. He throws a question for a question.

“Play Tezuka instead. He’s as good. Maybe better.”

“You play Tezuka, though,” Atobe spits, and before Ryoma could add in the honorifics this time, Atobe plunges on, “Every week. I know you do. The regulars sometimes talk about it.” Atobe’s face turns into an ugly sneer. “The court below the railroad tracks, they said. How quaint. Is that some kind of age-old ritual, then? You only play people you deem  _worthy_?” The last words are almost hurled at him, ice and fire, as with the last time Atobe had thought to wound him with words. Again as with last time, Ryoma feels rooted, his mind a slate, but it’s not as hurtful. It doesn’t hurt, no, that’s not it. It’s just…baffling.  _Why does he care?_  Ryoma thinks, and it’s confusing. Ryoma never cared for human motives and replies, he doesn’t care enough to garner the scorn Atobe is currently giving him. He doesn’t know why Atobe would care enough to hurl so much hate and fire at him.  In the end, he’s very tired and apathetic, and the only person he had ever given a slight interest to was Tezuka, and that was on the best of days.

“I play Tezuka,” he says slowly, “Because he doesn’t irritate me. That’s all. You talk too much.” Before Atobe can reply to that, which he will inevitably, Ryoma has no doubt about that, he walks away and stashes his racket into his bag. Before Atobe can come to him, perhaps blabber yet another pathetic apology that is grudgingly given, he hoists his bag over his shoulder and walks over to the court fence doors.  
“Work on your form,” he says in a tossing farewell, and doesn’t bother to hear a reply.

/

/

/

At the end of his first year, Tezuka was, indeed, made captain, and Ryoma lazily clapped along with the rest of his peers as Tezuka bowed and received his captain jersey.

“Tezuka would make a good captain-nya!” Kikumaru sang, his arm thrown over Tezuka’s shoulders, and Tezuka grimanced in reply. “Although, ochibi should have been made vice-captain—“

“Don’t want it,” Ryoma immediately said, “And stop calling me ochibi. It’s annoying.”

Kikumaru gave him an evil grin, somewhat uncharacteristic of him, and Ryoma rolled his eyes. “If  _Echizen_  has his growing spurt, maybe I will, right, Oishi?” he said, and proceeded to throw his other arm across Ryoma’s shoulders. “See! Tezuka is a head taller than you, nya! I can’t balance myself properly!” Kikumaru laughed while Tezuka threw him a beseeching look across from him, trapped in Kikumaru’s vices. Ryoma glared at the redhead, contemplating a twist serve right below the redhead’s ear, when Oishi finally meekly intervened, “Ah, Eiji, I think you should let go now…”

“Smart move, vice-captain,” Ryome said, and smirked when Oishi’s ears turned red at his new title.

The air was jubilant that day, even ending at Taka’s sushi place, a place normally reserved for victories and newfound vows. Everyone was rowdy and Takamura’s father was busying handling raw fish after another, while Fuji was hoarding up all the wasabi. It was normal as they got, and no one noticed when Tezuka turned to him after a plateful of sushi and good cheer and said his name gravely. “Echizen.”

Ryoma raised an eyebrow. “Captain,” he returned, jus as solemnly and with much gravity. Tezuka quirked his lips.

“I like the title,” Tezuka confessed. “It should have gone to you but—“

“Didn’t,” Ryoma cut him off, “Can’t. I would hate it. I hate paperwork and mentoring.  _You_  know that.”

Tezuka laughed softly, his brown eyes very soft. “I do, yes,” he said. Ryoma watched him, fascinated and wary, as Tezuka trained his eyes on him, almost as if mulling over his next words. Pointless, Ryoma thought. They both know what Tezuka would ask of him.

“You’d still not play?” Tezuka questioned lightly. The question, bounced off lightly in previous times, now held more weight into it, terse and strung tight. “In the regionals and Nationals?”

Ryoma titled his head. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Fuji studying them, but when he met Fuji’s open blue eyes, Fuji closed them off and gave him a benign smile. He looked away.

“You want me on your regulars,” he said.

“I do,” Tezuka replied. “I think I would be a fool not to.”

Ryoma studied the rugged and tattered tatami mats below him and fingered a loose thread. “I really don’t like to play losers,” he said. “I don’t like to play cheapshots.”

“I know that.”

“You—we—we made a promise. Or, you forced me into a promise,” he said, and he saw Tezuka eyes sharpen, because this was not the answer Tezuka was expecting. “You wanted the championships.”

“I do,” Tezuka said. “We all do.”

“Don’t be daft,” Ryoma said, not unkindly, “You’re the captain, you want it most of all.”

Tezuka gave him another half-smile and didn’t bother to defend himself against that.

“I’ll play,” Ryoma said, after a beat of silence. “I’ll play, but not regionals. Not even the early games. No regular placement matches. I want Yukimura or Sanada. I only want Rikkai.”

“That’s an awful lot of restrictions and rule-bending,” Tezuka commented dryly.

Ryoma grinned. “It must be devastating for you.”

Tezuka almost matched his grin but he subdued it. “You don’t think we’ll need you?”

“You’re the captain,” Ryoma said, “It’s your job to train your regulars. I think we’ll be fine before Rikkai. We’ll have the best doubles pair in the nation, and Fuji’s a genius.”

“Fuji doesn’t play seriously,” Tezuka said softly, almost hesitant.

“He will,” Ryoma said, and rolled his eyes. “If we’re going to Nationals. He’s not going to play his little brother all the time.”

“No,” Tezuka said, and his voice is lighter and calmer, “No, I suppose not. I’ll take your word for it, then. You’ll stand by the regulars?”

“Yeah,” Ryoma affirmed with a smirk. “Do we have a deal?”

Tezuka looked at him, his head tilted, his eyes inquisitive. “One more footnote, I think,” Tezuka said, and Ryoma groaned halfheartedly, “A match. With me.”

“Match?” Ryoma raised an eyebrow.

“Matches. Every Saturday. At our usual courts under the railways until the end of our year.” Tezuka looks almost afraid, tentative. He doesn’t think Ryoma would accept, but he looks resolute. “It wouldn’t be good to let your guard down,” he said, with the same gravity he wore when he first asked Ryoma to be in the regulars.

Ryoma snorted. “Your guard or mine?”

Tezuka twitched his lips but his eyes were still imploring.

“You’re a manipulative, shit-ass captain,” Ryoma said after a beat. “Whatever. Fine. We’ll play. Loser buys dinner after.”

Tezuka smiles. His eyes again hold that hesitant, grappling greed and desire that fascinated Ryoma after their first match, and the eyes hold Ryoma yet again. He doesn’t know why those eyes are full of need this time—the prospect of Nationals? More matches? He doesn’t really care, he feels just as giddy. Tezuka will be good, he thinks, almost as good as the old man had once been. He’ll become someone one day, shake Japan’s tennis like Ryoma had wanted to, before legacies and the media and his rage and forthcoming apathy.

“It sounds like a date, then,” Tezuka says, his gravity gone, his tone almost airy. Ryoma smirks at him in response.


End file.
